


Competencies

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Series: HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Imprisonment, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Third Person, Sensuality, Shaving, Wordcount: 100-2.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He watches Mr. Crocker take a knife to himself repeatedly – there is no other way to view it, a razor is a weapon, regardless of the way it happens to be employed in any one moment – with such care as to never damage himself. Even without a mirror, each pass is perfected, and not a single nick cuts into the man's skin.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The Dignitary finds himself a bit short of breath, all of a sudden.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Competencies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first bonus round of the 2014 [Homestuck Shipping World Cup.](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/) The prompt was "Remember when DD fell for Dad while watching him shave?" 
> 
> I really love fics about shaving and about ordinary, everyday activity becoming sensual or sexualized when viewed in a particular way or by a particular person. DD/Dad is a ship I've been on board with for some time, so I'm genuinely so happy to both finally get to write it and to write what is fundamentally "shaving porn."

-

After three days' captivity, when Mr. Crocker is finally consulted on his needs – "consulted" is the word the Dignitary thinks, but the truth is that he's more checking that the man is still alive and that none of his incompetent subordinates have gone truant in their responsibility to bring the prisoner food – he requests only one thing. That he be taken somewhere that will allow him to get a proper shave.

The stubble is thick on his heavy jaws, just the beginnings of what would become a truly impressive beard, were it allowed to grow out for more appropriate a measure. Without his hat, the Dignitary sees that hair is also beginning to grow in across Mr. Crocker's smooth head, though sparser and less thickly-rooted than the bristle collected on his face. It gives him a patchwork look that's hardly dignified. Owing to his name of office, the Dignitary can't help but feel the barest smidgen of pity at that misfortune. 

He acquiesces to the request. 

The washroom he leads Mr. Crocker to barely justifies use of the term. It's more of a janitor's office, the walls a darker, dingier plum than most of Derse's purple architecture and the room hosting little more than a wide granite basin of a sink and a handful of cleaning supplies shoved off in the corner. A single, bare bulb provides insufficient, pitiless illumination of the spartan space. Mr. Crocker nods faintly, a judgmental little incline of his head, fingers going to his chin as he seizes up the singular option being presented him. He goes over to the sink. 

"I require a straight razor and a shaving brush, and some proper shaving cream," he says. 

His tone is mellow and even, but the words do not quite bridge the gap toward becoming a question. He's giving directions, much as he does it in an understated way. It even works – the Dignitary cannot find it in him to take offense, when he has already agreed to the performance of the ritual. 

"That can be seen to," he agrees. 

He doesn't trust the prisoner as far as he can throw him. He especially doesn't trust any individual with that sort of brutish strength – he's seen it before from men he's better trusted, and even then the raw roughness of it was something he couldn't help but disdain – least of all when it's so constantly evident. Mr. Crocker need not lift safes and bust through walls in his presence for him to remember the man's capabilities. A look at the shape of him alone will do it – the breadth of his biceps filling out the arms of his jacket, the width of his broad chest, the way every line of him is strongly drawn, sturdy, etched out to a purpose. 

He's capability in clear, physical form, and the Dignitary always has so admired people who are capable. He sees no harm in admiring one such person more when the possibility is plainly presented him; if staring is rude, he shows no sign of agreeing with that assessment. He doesn't trust the prisoner, and he shouldn't leave him alone, but it will be a matter of minutes to complete the errand and he is far too proud to renege on his word. 

"I'll be but a minute," he says, turning smartly on his heel. 

The Dignitary doesn't shave himself, it not being necessary for his kind. Loose hair doesn't grow on chitin, and even the parts of him that are soft and vulnerable between the better-armored plates of his body are smooth and cool to the touch. Follicles are foreign to him, though he's hardly unfamiliar with the concept – he has far more experience with cats than he ever would have liked, and a cat with fewer bristles for it to be shedding everywhere would be an invention worthy of his support. 

He finds a razor with ease all the same. It's never difficult to find weapons in the offices he oversees. The brush and lather may not be what Mr. Crocker is used to, but they will suffice. When he returns to where he left the man – having locked the door to that hall, at least, to give the appearance of security if not the genuine reality – he's leaned against the basin of the sink, the small of his back pressed to the edge and his broad hands reached behind him to comfortably grasp the sides of the basin.

He doesn't look the part of one harried and held captive. He looks patient and permissive, as if he's precisely the place he's meant to be and simply waiting on the rest of the world to carry time along to its proper moment. His business will come along, so long as he waits for it. 

The Dignitary hands him the brush and the cup of cream first, before solemnly pressing the razor, straight-back first, into one soft palm. The pads of the Dignitary's fingers alone are unguarded by chitinous armor, grazing along the meaty base of Mr. Crocker's thumb, just brushing over the tips of the man's first two fingers as he leaves the razor to its new owner's care. Perhaps humans are not so different from carapaces as he has always been led to believe – Mr. Crocker's palm is only as soft as his own weakest points, and his fingers bear their own protection of calluses. 

He's overthinking, though it's always been his way to examine and judge. 

Mr. Crocker takes the razor easily in hand, settling the container of cream along the edge of the sink. He runs the water, letting it acclimate to his chosen temperature while he tests the blade of the razor delicately against the edge of his thumb. It just barely cuts him, and he smiles. The clear appreciation for a good tool stirs a sympathetic feeling to uncurl within the Dignitary's chest. It's a good razor – he'd tested it himself before making his selection. 

Once the water has run, Mr. Crocker takes the brush, briskly building a thick lather in the cup. His hand as he applies it to his face is deft and sure, applying it with the kind of calculated thoughtlessness that only comes in the wake of much practice. The Dignitary realizes then that as a janitor's washroom, they have no mirror, and what little he's been made aware of human shaving habits always included the use of a mirror. Mr. Crocker does not appear concerned with the lacking. 

His hand with the razor is firm and certain, the handle braced easily against his hand as he draws the bare blade against his face. Stripes of lathered cream are swiped away, revealing growing bands of the man's darker skin underneath the white of good, clean soap. Mr. Crocker has his jaw set in concentration, and the Dignitary feels no need to speak; in the absolute silence, he can precisely hear the sound of blade drawing against skin. It's soft and secret, a quiet _schwpp_ repeating steadily as the man works. 

The Dignitary watches the man tilt up his chin, head raised to bare his throat in a gesture that at any other time would speak loudly of submission. His face contains nothing of the feeling, simply serene concentration as he performs his assigned task. The Dignitary watches the pass of the blade, unflinchingly brought to the vulnerable nakedness of Mr. Crocker's neck, watches a gesture that with one wrong motion could slit the man open from ear to ear. He can see the blood that would course forth already, vivid red pouring through white foam and splattering onto the floor in sickly pink globs. 

He watches Mr. Crocker take a knife to himself repeatedly – there is no other way to view it, a razor is a weapon, regardless of the way it happens to be employed in any one moment – with such care as to never damage himself. Even without a mirror, each pass is perfected, and not a single nick cuts into the man's skin.

The Dignitary finds himself a bit short of breath, all of a sudden. 

The ritual isn't actually a long one, though, and before long every trace of Mr. Crocker's hair is removed. Even the meager stubble around his crown he sees to without needing to see his hands work. Satisfied, he ducks his head, splashing his face with water from the sink in order to rinse the last remaining traces of suds from his face. That, too, is brisk and businesslike. He spends no more time than what is necessary, though the job he does is entirely complete and his face, when he stands straight, is washed unerringly clean. 

"I forgot to ask for a towel," he laments. 

It's uncertain whether the words are to the Dignitary, or simply a comment to his own benefit. The Dignitary allows him a pitying nod of the head anyway, accepting that it was a request that should have been made earlier, while he was feeling generous. 

"Thank you," Mr. Crocker adds, with a gratefulness more acute than the Dignitary hoped to expect. "I'll return to my cell now." 

The Dignitary purses his lips, to the low sound of his face-plates subtly grinding at being forced so unkindly against each other. He isn't a man to display kindness frivolously, believing that all actions, harsh or benevolent, are best earned. To suggest sentimentality on his own part would be absolute foolishness. He makes the decision all the same. 

"I have new lodgings where you will now be housed," he says, as if this were always planned. 

Mr. Crocker gives a nod, respectfully accepting the decrees of his captors. He's taken to his imprisonment remarkably well – suspiciously so, almost, so that the Dignitary has to wonder whether the man is aware of some future events not yet made known to his jailors. 

It's a matter for later thought. For the time being, the Dignitary settles for leading Mr. Crocker out of the bowels of the Dersite palace and up into one of its tallest towers. The new accommodations are lavish ones, ones he knew had already been prepared. Oh, no other guests were ever expected, he simply considered it a waste to allow anything fine to fall into disuse. 

If Mr. Crocker thinks anything suspicious of the quality to his new apartment, he says nothing. 

"I'll return later," the Dignitary says. "For now, you stay here." 

He doesn't qualify the truth to his words, admits in no way how easily Mr. Crocker has managed to fascinate him. In this new apartment, he will be able to watch this new object of his interest most closely, and perhaps, if he can contrive the reason, visit. It's a high point for him to look forward toward, in the face of business. 

-

-


End file.
